1999
by KToon
Summary: Sometimes, the spooky scary monsters in this world or the psychotic killers roaming the cities aren't the most dangerous things. Sam doesn't have to remind himself of that anymore.


_A/N - I honestly don't know if this story is any good. I wrote it pretty fast, and it only went through about two read-throughs of editing. I don' have a beta, so any and all mistakes are mine. This plot bunny literally just came to my mind, and it wouldn't leave no matter how much I tried to resist. I think the pacing is a little too fast, but I hope it's still readable. _

_I would love some reviews to tell me if this is any good or not, because right now I'm leaning toward trash, haha._

_This event was a real thing that took place on May 3rd, 1999. My heart goes out to all the lives lost during that tragedy._

_Disclaimer: The Winchesters still aren't mine._

_Warnings: Coarse language._

_Relationships/Pairings: None/Gen - just some lovely brotherly fluff, and of course hurt!Sam._

_Enjoy!_

**1999**

* * *

The music blasting in the Impala is annoying, Sam thinks. His brother is annoying. This whole town is annoying. Everything about this goddamn hunt that their father _annoyingly_ sent them on is so goddamn _annoying._ He kicks his feet back onto the dash simply to irritate his older brother, whom is mouthing the words to a Van Halen song on the radio turned to full blast.

"Quit it," Dean admonishes, slapping Sam's calf hard.

Sam rolls his eyes. "_Quit it,_" he mocks. "_The dirty soles of my shoes are going to get so much dirt on the upholstery it's going to murder my brother's car! Oh no! It's the end of the world! Someone call the Army!"_

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a bitch when you're cranky?"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a jackass?"

"Yeah, actually."

"Give me their number. I'd love to meet them."

"Oh shuddup."

Sam curls further into the bench seat, stubbornly putting his boots back up on the lip he previously was occupying. Dean glares, but smartly doesn't say anything more. Good. Sam's not in the mood to argue. Anway, this position is the most comfortable he's been in the past thirteen hours, which is saying something; they've been on the road since early dawn, and it's currently going on late evening. All the while, the two brothers have been switching on and off driving duty, albeit Dean reluctantly, and Sam's just glad his brother trusts him to drive. He _is _sixteen years old now, he reminds Dean every so often.

That's right—today is the glorious Monday of May 2nd, in which he gets to celebrate his sweet sixteenth. And though he would really love to be able to spend the time at a birthday party with some friends like a normal kid his age, they just abandoned Arkansas and all of his buddies with it. Not that Sam minds. Despite the music being _annoying_, it's actually been pretty nice being able to spend some quality time with Dean not interrupted by a hunt or their father.

A hunt...today may be spared, but tomorrow is a different story. Their father has sent them on a grueling mission to hunt down a vengeful spirit in Moore. Typically, Sam would be pissing and moaning about having to move yet again, but his birthday has put him in good spirits and he's, for once, not wanting to have an argument every living second of the day with his old man.

Besides, Dean promised that tomorrow, after they've toasted the spook, he would take Sam out to see a movie at the theaters and then maybe go sneak some booze from a bar. Sam's never been one to delve into the amenities of liquor, but today he'd thought it would seem like a reasonable exception. Fake IDs were a thing they never got to utilize often.

So, all in all, Sam is really just looking forward to getting this hunt over with and actually commemorating the day of his birth.

The purr of the Impala slowing to a stop at a traffic light brings him back to the present, and he glances out the window to see the moonlit town they've arrived at. Around them are a few gas stations and high-springing hotels, peppered with a number of hometown restaurants and convenience stores. It's a nice place.

Needless to say, Sam is momentarily dumbfounded when Dean jerks the steering wheel to the right, pulling them into the driveway of a fancy looking Hilton.

"Welcome to Oklahoma," Dean says jovially.

"I don't think this is the slimy motel we booked online back in Jonesboro."

"Huh. Really? What gave you that idea? Shut up, Sam—you're not spending your birthday in some crappy roadside joint that probably has moldy pillows and roach-infested kitchens. In fact, there's no _probably_ to it. I ain't a sadist," he says.

Pulling the car into a nearby parking space, Dean opens the door and steps out, immediately shooting his hands to the sky in a long, drawn-out stretch. He yawns.

Getting out as well, Sam replies, "Uh, dude, how much is this going to cost? Do we even have the money to afford a room at this place?"

Dean points a finger at him. "Hey. Don't worry about it. I've got it covered. Now, you? You're going to get the bags out of the trunk while I go snag us our two fluffy and plumped mattresses on like the sixtieth floor of this place, and you're not going to worry about money, or dad, or this hunt, or anything at _all_, until you've gotten a good night's rest."

A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Sam's lips. "All right," he concedes. "Fine."

Dean zips up his jacket, tosses Sam a smirk, then turns to start walking toward the front entrance. Sam sighs, getting started on his task of gathering all of their luggage—which, really only consists of both of their duffles full of a few sets of clothing and one weapons bag—and sorts the firearms out they'd need. A shotgun here, salt shells there, consecrated iron bullets in his pistol...god, his life is so strange. The iron bullets are especially hard to get, and they have to smuggle the rounds from an old hunting buddy of his dad's. But, they're effective, and although they travel a lot slower because they're more dense, it's proved handy many times.

Shouldering the three bags, he starts off the same way his brother went.

As he makes his way around the puzzle that is the revolving doors, he nearly trips at the mere sight of the lobby. The reception desks are at the far right, made of a dark oak wood and intricate, carved patterns. The center of the area is occupied by a large fountain, accompanied by several soft and cushioned benches, and there's only a few loitering people still sitting on laptops near the water. At the far end he can see the clear exits leading to an extensively large pool that's been closed for a few hours already, as well as some cabanas and blue beach chairs. To the left are the elevators, and all of the walls are decorated with ornate paintings and antiques.

He's never seen anything this gorgeous for a rooming space in a long time, if ever. Dean's standing off to the side, keys dangling from his fingers and shit-eating grin occupying his face. "Impressive, huh?" he says loud enough for Sam to hear.

Sam looks about himself, then briskly walks over to his brother's side. "Uh, impressive? Try _amazing._ I will ask this again, though—how in the actual living fuck did we afford this? What is it, $600 a night?"

Dean huffs, obviously having sensed the question coming. "No. For your information, it's two-hundred. They had a nice deal going on that I couldn't pass up. Bobby helped with the funding, too."

"Bobby? Really?"

"Yeah. The rest I covered with the cash I got from hustling last week. We can only stay one night, but I was hoping you'd like it. I'm sorry."

Sam slaps the backside of Dean's head, and ignores the cry of protest and pain.

"You're a dumbass. This is freakin' phenomenal. I love it, and one night is most certainly enough."

Dean visibly brightens at that. "Well, good thing, because I worked my ass off to get that money. Those guys who lost their drug money weren't really happy I beat 'em."

"What'd they do? Try and pickpocket you, or jump you in the alley?"

"Pickpocket."

"Aha. What'd you break?"

"His wrist, nose, and finger."

"Yikes."

Good-naturedly teasing each other, they make their way over to elevators in tandem, preparing for a lengthy, uninterrupted, deep sleep.

* * *

At nine in the morning is when Sam finally opens his eyes, and it's to Dean pulling back the velvet curtains and letting the dreaded sunlight encroach upon their room. The rays shine directly into his eyes, and he protests by flopping over onto his stomach and putting the soft pillow over his head.

"No," he says, then says it again a little more forcefully. "I am _not_ leaving this bed, and nothing you say or do is going to change my mind."

Dean yanks the covers to Sam's feet, and the younger brother squirms at the sudden absence of warmth. "Yeah, well, unfortunately checkout is at two—the latest I could get, sorry—and we still need to catch us a ghosty ghost. C'mon, geekboy."

Sam groans. "No. You heard me. I'm not leaving this bed."

"Tough luck, bitch."

He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the white plaster ceiling. Finally, after a few deep breaths, he sits up and says, "Fine. Get me my laptop."

Dean moves from his position in front of the TV to the coffee table, where their bags are thrown haphazardly across the floor. In a desperate hunger for sleep, they'd unceremoniously strewn their things and immediately leapt onto the mattress. It'd been a good eleven hours of rest.

Sam soon finds his computer on his lap, and he tiredly opens the screen. While waiting for it to boot up, Dean tosses him a fresh pair of clothes, and he shrugs out of his tee into the comforting flannel. He'll worry about his jeans later.

Their hotel room is astounding, adorned with two queen beds, a flat screen TV, personal coffee machine (Dean was really excited about that), unrusted bathroom with hot water, and small kitchenette. Most of all, it has that smell that just comes with anything new and clean, such as a new car. It's refreshing, for once, instead of the scummy rat-holes they bunk in on a day-to-day basis.

His laptop finally working, Sam brings his attention to his brother who is now fully changed and leaning back on the bed, skimming through a map of the town. "Alright," he says mostly to himself, opening a search query. "Could you run me through what's been happening here?"

"Sure thing," Dean answers, ripping open the granola bar he had somehow found in the mini-fridge. Sam doesn't bother to tell him they had to pay for that—he wouldn't understand, anyway. "Basically, a family moved into a house in Bridge Creek, and their daughter claims to have seen a mysterious, translucent figure appearing in and out of thin air. She claims it attacked her one night in her bedroom, but there was no evidence of a break-in. Cops are clueless, and the family is freaking out with random crap that's been happening."

"What other crap?"

"Electrical shortages, rats, the whole shabang."

After Dean provides the address of the home, Sam runs multiple background checks on the property, investigating previous incidents and owners. Nearly halfway through his search, an abrupt clap of lightning causes him to jump, and Dean snorts at him. "Classy," he comments cooly.

Sam furrows his eyebrows. He was pretty damn sure the sun had just blinded him not more than ten minutes ago. Now, as he looks out the window he sees heavy shelf clouds in the distance, tumbling over each other and moving at a deft pace toward them.

"It's going to rain?" he asks.

"Yeah," Dean confirms. "Forecasts look pretty shitty, actually. I wouldn't be surprised if we're in for a rough night. Only makes this whole thing more awesome, am I right?"

Sam scoffs. "Yes, totally. Because hunting Casper in a downpour is going to be _so_ much fun."

"Don't forget your rain boots, Samantha. It's gonna be nippy, and you wouldn't want to ruin your precious heels."

Sam smiles. "It's kind of hilarious watching you try to fit your entire vocabulary into one sentence."

Dean throws the rest of his uneaten bar at him, and the crumbs spill down the front of Sam's shirt. Ruffling it out, he tosses his brother an _I swear to god I'm going to kill you_ look, and focuses back on the screen of his computer.

"Well, jerk, I've got the results," he informs Dean.

"Oh?"

"Mhm. Turns out this Hakan Falshkin guy used to live at the residence. He was killed, guess what, by a robber that was trying to steal his deposits." Sam rolls his shoulders, then his neck, working out the kinks. "Seems like a pretty run-of-the-mill case to me. Burn his bones and be done, I suppose."

Dean stands up once more, grabs the weapons bag, slides on his shoes, and leans against the doorframe. "Well, then let's go. Where was he buried?"

Sam purses his lips. "You want to leave right now?"

"Hey, the sooner this is over with the better. We should get it done before the storm gets here."

After a pause, Sam answers, "The local Bridge Creek cemetery. Just...give me a second to get my pants on."

"If you insist."

* * *

The drive to the graveyard is ominous. The dark clouds loom above them, and honestly, it frightens Sam a bit. A quick glance at the doppler had showed a serious shitstorm coming their way, and now he agrees with his brother—time to just get in and out of dodge.

Once they had left their room and headed down to the lobby, they'd spotted a huge crowd of people hanging around the front desks. Curious, Dean had shoved his way through, and found out the staff were allowing both late checkout times and a free extra-night stay in spite of the oncoming bad weather. In fact, they were encouraging guests to stay in the shelter, as driving would put them at an unnecessary risk. If Sam got another night at that place, then he totally wasn't complaining about crowds, or storms.

When they arrive at the graves, Dean immediately leaves to do a thorough search of the property. Burning a corpse in the daytime was a risky process, but with the dangers coming, then most people wouldn't be visiting at this time. Only a single woman was present, collecting valuables from her son's tomb, including a stuffed teddy bear and newly blossomed flowers. It tugged at Sam's heartstrings, but he knew he had a job to do, and shoved his feelings behind an emotional barrier.

Once she left, the boys begun their task of digging the six feet of compacted dirt. About three feet under, it started to drizzle, and Sam shook his wet strands of hair out. Droplets flew, and Dean made a sly joke about him being an actual dog that wouldn't get a bitch within 20 meters of him. Sam had flung dirt clumps at him for that.

Now they finally are just breaching the surface of the coffin, and Sam drops the shovel in satisfaction; his hands are becoming immensely blistered, blood beginning to sprout from the marks in a slow stream. Dean breaks through the wood, and the rain begins to pour harder.

Sam picks up one of their shotguns, loads the duel-chambers, and keeps watch. They hadn't even needed to talk about their respective jobs—it comes naturally to them, and Sam simply knows by intuition to keep his brother's back covered while he does the dirty work.

As Dean struggles to light the clip in the rain, the temperature suddenly drastically drops, and Sam knows what's coming. To his right, the apparition appears, and he swings the barrel to face the ghost without hesitation. He halts, though, when Hakan seems to be holding his hands up, face contorted into a look of misery.

"Leave," he whispers, but there's no force or anger behind his words. "Burn and leave," he repeats.

Sam chances a look at Dean to see him still fumbling with the lighter. "Leave where?" he asks apprehensively.

"Town," the spirit tells him. "Death reeks of this place. Get far away. Now."

Just then, Hakan suddenly looks up to the sky, pain etching onto his features. He doesn't scream like most do—simply burns to ash, and disappears into thin air. Sam turns around in time to see Dean crawling out of the hole.

"What was all that about?" the elder brother wonders.

"I don't know. But I think he just wanted peace."

"Ohhhkayy. Interesting. Never seen a vengeful spirit not...vengeful."

"I don't have any more of an idea than you do, man."

Dean clasps his hands together. "Alright, well, I'll finish up here, and you can go bring the car around. Then, I say let's head to the movies, watch some cheesy horror flick, then grab us some grub. We can call Dad later and tell him the job's done. He's still probably working his own case, in fact."

Sam does just that, and before he knows it it's running on evening and they're on their way to a diner back near where they desecrated the grave, commenting about the corny movie they just watched. Nothing they see is scary to them anymore, as they practically live Hollywood's finest supernatural films every day of their lives, and they've come to just make fun of the wrong lore and terrible acting. Sam pulls the car into the space of a burger place—and yes, Dean had let him drive again! Birthday celebrations were certainly a thing he was becoming fond of!—and they make their way to the entrance. They're halted, though, by a closed sign illuminating the door.

It's then that Sam notices the sky is pitch black, blue horizon eliminated by thunderstorms and rain. Dean looks down at his watch. "Uh, it's only 6:13. Why is this place closed?" They linger outside for a few more seconds, and Sam senses an unsettling feeling reside in his stomach.

They're startled when the door suddenly opens, and a middle-aged woman with keys in her hands comes rushing out. Her face looks panicked, and she turns around and locks the door, oblivious to the brothers not more than five feet away from her.

"Ma'am?" Dean prods softly, as to not scare her in her anxiety-filled state. It doesn't work.

She jumps back like a cat, a small shriek escaping her lips. Once her eyes trail over the two boys, though, she calms. "What in God's name are you boys doing out here? You should be in the shelters, for Christ's sake! Haven't you seen the weather?"

"The shelters? Miss, what is happening?"

She stares at them for a long few seconds. "You don't know," she says finally. It's not a question, and her southern accent sounds pained. "Boys, it's bordering on the freakin' apocalypse out here! My daughter who studies meteorology at the local college just messaged me that there's a lot of rotation out here. A tornado is pretty damn likely at this point, and it's certainly going to be a doozy. With the outbreak that's been happening lately, I'm scared to death about what's coming. I just want to get back to my dogs and take them someplace safe, and get somewhere I won't be killed. If you know what's best for you, you'd get in that car of yours and book it for the nearest tornado shelter around. I think the closest is about five minutes from here, at the local high school. It's open to citizens all around."

Dean squints his eyes disbelievingly. "You're not kidding," he concludes.

"Boy, I wish I was! It hailed here a little over two hours ago, and everybody is saying to get to a safe place. I'd advise you to listen! I've got to go, but you stay safe out there! Look out for each other!"

With that she jogs off to her Chevelle, unlocking it and speeding off. "Dean," Sam says, and shakes his head. "Better to be careful and listen to what she says than not take the warning seriously."

Dean nods. "I know. Let's go, then."

As if on cue, and Sam finds it certainly ironic at this point, a low whine starts to resound throughout the town. It climbs in pitch and then lowers back down, and fear grips him so tightly that he's sure it's strangling him by now. He knows exactly what that is, and it scares him to death.

"Is that…" Dean lets the question trail off.

"Tornado sirens," Sam affirms quietly.

It's unreal. The sirens echo throughout the silent town, reverberating off buildings and structures. It sounds terrifying, almost even more frightening than the knowledge of what is coming. There's no cars on the roads, no people, nothing, and that just leaves the wind and the fear-inducing warning signals. They stay paralyzed there for at least a minute, transfixed on the audio.

Finally, Dean takes responsibility and tugs Sam's coat, pulling him to the Impala. "We have to go!" he commands, and Sam is snapped back into reality. They quickly get into the vehicle, and Dean speeds off to the east. Navigating the roads is simple with no awful drivers to combat, and Sam religiously checks the rearview mirror. The lighting has picked up intensely, eardrum-shattering bolts landing uncomfortably close to them. It's during one of these long flashes that Sam sees it.

It's rain-wrapped for sure, but the spinning is obvious. Through the darkness he can see the wedge-shape, debris swirling into the air in a frenzy. Although it appears to be a few miles behind them, it's still enough to send him into a panic. He urges Dean to drive faster, and frustrated, Dean pushes his baby to the limits.

Tired of the silence, Sam turns up the volume of the radio, listening to the same county-wide warning that has been playing on repeat for the past few minutes. The monotone voice drones on, but at least it's something for Sam to ground himself to.

"_...On the southeast side of Amber, Oklahoma, a tornado of at least category 2 on the Fujita scale touched down in a suburban area. It is traveling northeast at an estimated speed of 20 miles per hour. We advise everybody in its immediate path to take shelter immediately...The tornado is slowly tracking toward Bridge Creek, Oklahoma, and is now estimated to be an F4 supercell...Take shelter immediately…"_

Sam turns it off. It's not doing any good.

They travel under an overpass, and Sam throws an arm out to stop his brother. Dean reacts, slamming on the breaks. "What the hell?" he sputters, but Sam's already out the door and screaming at the top of his lungs over the wind.

"You guys need to get out of here!" he insists to the couple hunkering down underneath the road. "This is just actually the _worst _fucking place to be! We'll take you to a shelter someplace, but just anywhere other than here! This creates a wind tunnel, and you'll be killed before you know it!"

To the man and woman's credit, they seem scared of him, and submissively make their way to the Impala, abandoning their own vehicle. Dean looks slightly pissed, but Sam ignores him. His brother would have to just suck it up and take these people with them, even it means strangers getting in the car.

"Where is the closest tornado shelter?" Dean asks. "We heard it was at a high school, but we've long since passed it. We're not from here. Where do we go?"

"We don't k-know," the woman stammers, clutching her boyfriend's—or at least Sam assumes is her boyfriend's—hand. "We're v-visting from Tampa. We don't know this place either."

Dean slams his fists down on the dash, and Sam rubs his forehead. "Fuck…" he mutters.

They start back out on the road, and Sam looks back behind them again. The funnel is no longer coated in rain, and they can see it in its entirety now. It's most definitely gained ground on them, and they need to find a shelter. Fast.

Sam can see Dean visibly make a decision, pulling into the parking lot of a tall-standing chapel. It's not that they're faithful or anything, but Sam understands that these structures are built strong and sturdy. It's their best chance.

"Alright, everybody out!" Dean orders, and they climb out of the Impala. Dean looks longingly at his car, clearly saying his farewells, before running to the oaken doors. They're locked of course, but it doesn't take long for them to pick it with their kits. The man looks slightly disturbed by their actions, but Sam doesn't have the time to think about that right now.

They clamber inside, finding their way to the center of the building. Sam crawls under one of the rows seats, and Dean does the same thing parallel to him in the opposite side. He doesn't pay mind to where the couple goes, but he presumes they're not far.

It's quiet for a long time. Well, maybe a long time, but in reality it could of only been a few minutes. For a bit the only sounds they can hear are the heavy raindrops outside, thunder and their own breathing. It's quite frightening, the sense of foreboding imminent, and Sam closes his eyes and mumbles a near-silent prayer. He can't think of anything else to do.

From there, things speed up tremendously. The walls begin to creak loudly, swaying, and Sam's breath catches.

"Dean?" he pleads.

"I'm right here, kiddo."

After all, Sam's just a sixteen year-old child, and the face of death scares him like none other. There's a distant roaring that increases in volume slowly, and he knows what it is.

"I love you, Dean."

"Love you too, Sammy."

"This has been the best birthday ever. Thank you."

"Sam, stop. We're going to be fine."

"You don't know that."

"I do, and you're going to get your geeky little cake, blow out the candles, see Dad again, do more geeky stuff, and live a great life. Got it?"

"Okay, Dean… Just…"

"What?"

"Thank—"

Suddenly the roof is ripped from their heads, and the world turns a pitch shade of black.

* * *

There's something wet on his face. That's the first thing that Sam notices as he travels back to the land of the conscious.

Then, there's something warm on his face. His ears are ringing. Why are his ears ringing, again?

His head hurts. Bad. Now that he thinks of it, his side hurts pretty bad, too. Maybe his back as well. His arm can be added into the equation, as well as his right foot.

The ringing slowly fizzles out into the soothing sound of drizzling rain. He opens his eyes wearily, and the first thing he sees is a grey sky. He knows he is laying on his back, because he's facing up, and he wouldn't be facing up if he were laying on his stomach.

"There you go, Sammy, that's it," a voice says calmingly. "Wake up, kid. Please."

He recognizes that voice, doesn't he? He knows who it is, but he doesn't at the same time. That's not right. He tries to sit up, but calloused hands push him back down. It's not of use, anyway—a sudden sharp and burning pain in his stomach has him panting heavily.

"Can you hear me, Sam?"

That's when he places the person speaking. Dean.

"I can hear your obnoxious voice ringing in my ear, yeah," he says half-heartedly. An itch at the back of his throat makes him cough, and before he knows it his back is arching upward, strong hacks forcing him to gag. The episode subsides, and he closes his eyes again.

Dean doesn't like that. "Hey, no passing out on me again, princess, you hear me? I've got to get you to a hospital."

"A hos'tl'?" Sam questions. Before he said them, the words sounded fine, but as they left his mouth his tongue seemed too fat to fit behind his lips.

"Yeah. You got a little roughed up, Sammy."

Sam looks down to the main source of pain in his abdomen. Protruding from his skin he can see a long metal pole, ends coated in crimson paint.

"Oh."

The rest is blank as he travels in and out of consciousness. He feels Dean carry him bridal-style somewhere, and then he's laying down on a soft cushion instead of hard rubble and ruins. The lull of a car almost puts him to sleep, but Dean chastises him vehemently to stay awake. Well, if Dean's asking something of him, then he supposes he should comply.

It's not long before he's picked up again, and there's so many voices around him he doesn't know where he is anymore. All he _does_ know is he can't hear Dean. There's moans of pain and sobbing and orderlies shouting commands, but his brother is gone. The sterile scent of a hospital assaults his nose, and he feels like sneezing. He supposes that would be painful, though, given the piece of metal in his body. Dean never took out. That's probably a good thing. It's the only thing stopping him from bleeding out right now, he rationalizes in his mind.

"D'n," slips from his lips, and a doctor shushes him.

"You'll see your brother soon."

With that knowledge, he allows himself to blissfully pass out.

* * *

Sam's eyes skim over the paper.

_The Bridge Creek–Moore tornado._

36 casualties. 583 injuries. An hour and a half long storm. Winds of up to 301 miles per hour, plus or minus twenty. This could have been a hypothetical F6 tornado, and they wouldn't have known. Will never know.

It's been two weeks since May 3rd, 1999. His shredded kidney is slowly repairing, his broken wrist and three toes are improving, and his fractured skull is feeling better with time. Dean sits by his bed constantly. His dad stopped by a few days ago, but didn't stay long. Had another hunt to get to.

Sam drowns in his grief. The couple that sheltered with them...dead. If he hadn't brought them along, they could still be alive. Their faces haunt him.

The Winchesters were lucky.

Which, is hard for Sam to believe seeing the immobile state he's in now. At least he's expected to make a full recovery, which is somewhat comforting.

The fancy hotel they stayed at was demolished. Nobody died there, but the structure was completely flattened, not unlike thousands of others ranging from Amber to Moore.

Their car is surprisingly untouched. A few debris scrapes, but that's all. While the church they had stayed in was completely concaved, their beautiful, well and truly only home was still standing not more than a hundred feet away. It'd saved Sam's life, providing Dean a way to get him help.

Dean suffered little injuries, aside from a minor concussion that would be resolved in a few days. Sam's thanking God for that small mercy.

His brother tells him that the town is in shambles, but people are already rebuilding. They probably won't have a way out of the place for another week, seeming as though power lines and traces of the town litter the streets. The tornado had even ripped up an inch of the asphalt off one of the roads.

Catastrophic. Historical. Tragedy.

Those are the three words he hears most often. It'll take a while to bounce back from this, he knows, but as long as he's got Dean by his side, then he thinks he'll be just fine.

Sometimes, the spooky scary monsters in this world or the psychotic killers roaming the cities aren't the most dangerous things. Sam doesn't have to remind himself of that anymore. He's lived it.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks him, looking up from his own newspaper.

"No," he admits. "But I will be. Eventually."

_fin_


End file.
